'Dash,' scowled the stranger, then, realising I was in earshot, Tm sorry'
I nodded my head, all the better not to retrieve my hands from their now cosy southerly home in my pockets. He stepped towards me.
'Excuse me, fine sir,' he said, 'which coach was that I have missed?'
I frowned slightly betraying my imminent bad news.
"That was the 1750 - Classical Period. Er, change at Slough.' 'Dash,' he said again. And again, 'Sorry.' He paused. 'And the next one?' I looked at my pocket watch.
'The next? Not until 1820… or thereabouts. That s the Romantic Period.' At this, the tall stranger looked crestfallen. 'Seventy years? Seventy years till the next one?'
As sure as I was of my facts, I proffered some last hope. Xet me just check,' I said, fruitlessly 'Yes, the 1820, Romantic There is something leaving at 1800, but that's if you've paid in advance Yo\x haven't paid in advance, have you?' His gaze fell to his galoshea 'Er, no. No, I haven't.'
'Then your best bet is the 1820. Come, let me buy you a hot whisky and bitters. Y»u can let your troubles float off in the vapours!' It was all the comfort I could offer.
'Thank you/ said the would-be traveller, and we both transferred inside. Lovely moment, isn't it? A real-life, eye-witness account of one man's missing the start of the Classical period. Touching, if a little surreal. Could someone bring me a blanket for my legs?
…DON'T FIX IT o. It's classical, Jim, but not as we know it. Well, not really. Not yet, anyway. And why not? Well, mainly because not enough people knew it was classical yet, just in the same way they didn't lcnow it was baroque until it came up and bit them in the head. The '1750, start of the Classical period' nonsense is exactly that. Nonsense. It's a very convenient and very general label put on things to show that, from roughly around this time, the first pieces of what we now recognize as classical music began to be written.
But still, we are now 'officially' classical. The period from which all classical music gets its name. And why? Why did this one period from around 1750 to 1820 or so give its name to ALL this type of music, from year dot to the present day? Baroque, romantic, even modern music… why do we call it all 'classical' music? The answer?
Haven't a clue. You'll have to read another book if you want to know the answer to that one/
Of course, it's early days, yet. And just like at the end of an exam, when the bell goes, very few people immediately just put their pens down. So, very few people just stopped writing baroque, just like that. Well, OK, Bach did, but that was more down to a personal request from the Grim Reaper than a change to classical. Most others carried ? May I suggest Why We Call All Classical Music Classical, Including Baroque, Romantic and Even Some Modern, by Stephen Fry, price Ј40, discounts for orders over 30. If I get enough orders, I way even write the book. on a bit, writing baroque, until the teacher physically wrested the pen from their hands. Metaphorically speaking, of course. A couple, however, were beginning to show many of the hallmarks of the classical period, particularly CPE Bach. Also, many of the younger lot, the new guys just graduating straight into the classical era, found it natural, of course, to write nothing else. And there was one Bavarian who was quick to see the point of this new 'classical thing' - what the marketing men today would call 'an early adopter'. And what's more, not only was he about to write his best work EVER, but, more to the point, he also had a mildly amusing middle name. FAN-TASTIC! Step forward… Qhristoph Willibald von G^luck
Yes, I know. As Frankie Howerd would have said, 'Ooh-er, no, dear, don't titter. No… titter ye not!' Anyway, before we come to him, let me quickly set the scene for you. Imagine it's 1?©2. Yes, I know - doesn't tempus fugit, especially when you want to cover thirty-two years in the next ten pages. Still. Can't have everything, as it were.
DANDY
s o, what's happened since our last little chat? Well, let's see.
Johnson's Dictionary has been out seven years now, taking its place on all good bibliophiles' shelves, alongside, perhaps, Laurence Sterne's Tristram Shandy, Voltaire's Candide and, just this year, Rousseau's Social Contract.
Not so much of a bedtime read, that last one. The same house that had a burgeoning bookshelf also might have had one of Thomas Chippendale's cabinets - very 'This Year' - or even a painting by George Stubbs. George Stubbs was more or less like Damien Hirst in his time, except that he left his subjects whole and favoured oil over formaldehyde. Josiah Wedgwood had, only a couple of years ago, started a pottery in Etruria, Staffordshire, and, more recendy, Beau Nash had… well, been busy being Beau Nash - dandy and bon-viveur. Great tide, isn't it, Dandy? I can just imagine him down the job Centre. In fact, I think there's mention of such an incident in Fry's (llassical Lives. Gosh, that book is useful. I had been a guest of the government before, and found their weekly gatherings at the 'Maison de Travail* to be not unpleasant. On this occasion, I found myself next in the queue to the great bon-viveur, raconteur and general dandy Mr Beau Nash Indeed, at one point it appeared that he had been 'viveur-ing' rather too???-ly' the previous night, and his right cheek made a more than passing acquaintance with my shoulder. When it came to his turn to demonstrate his government artistry, I woke him from his slumbers and prompted him to play his part. He requested mat I accompany him to his desk, as he had a touch of gout mat might make his walking a little less stable than normal. This I was glad to do, and, as a result, I was by his side for the entire encounter, which passed in something like this manner. TMame?' 'Nash, Beau.' 'Occupation?' 'Dandy' 'Sorry?' 'Dandy,' I say 'Dandy?'
'Yes sir, dandy I am a dandy I… I… I dand. And frequendy Now pray tell me, my good man… I am present primarily to solicit travails and labours wherein I might, by their subsequent execution, seek to procure, for my own part, a modest pecuniary - some might say nummular - advantage. What say you?'
The representative of good King George raised his head. 'Come again?' he said, somewhat nonplussed.
Nash stared at him, sniffed once and said, 'Gizza job!' What a beautiful extract. How lucky we are to have such a fine account of the times. Thank goodness for my forefathers, that's all I can say.
BEANO
I
? return to 1762, what of sport? Well, sport, it would appear, is thriving. St Andrews has been founded, as has the Jockey Club, and, thank goodness, someone's even laid down the rules of whist. In other areas, a couple of important factories have gone up, too, notably the world's first porcelain factory and the world's first chocolate factory. One, clearly, far more important than the other. On a more 'world' stage, George II has died and George III is here. Things are beginning to rumble in America, with everyone talking independence, and, just to keep the tally going, we are currently six years in to a seven years' war. And I think that's more or less it. Oh, no… someone has invented the harmonica. The thoughdess bastard.
Musically speaking, though, there has been a shift taking place. The centre of the music universe is moving. It was Italy, having previously been Holland and Flanders, but now it was shifting again to Vienna, principally because of the Hapsburgs, the all-powerful family currently enjoying a spell as Holy Roman Emperors. Handel is now gone, just three years ago, and with him, the last great champion of the baroque art. Classical music, as we know it, is getting a firm foothold, mainly because the baroque composers have all but died off. It's in among all this that the man with the mildly amusing middle name, Gluck, decides to write a new opera.